“Well, he laughed at her, and then she got all soft and weepy and said how she never meant it. Me, I couldn’t keep my nose out of it. I’d spent time in the mountains with him and liked him, so when she bought that rat poison, I told him about it.
“He just looked at me, and said, ‘There are rats in that old hotel. I’ve heard them.’
“ ‘Uh-huh. And they been there ten years, and nobody made any fuss about ’em, so how come all of a sudden she buys enough rat poison to kill half the rats in Colorado?’
“The next day he was gone out of there…just like that.
“Oh, you should have seen her! She was fit to be tied! Somehow she’d learned that he was well fixed, and she hated to lose.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“No. He went back east, I think, or maybe to Canada.”
“And Myra?”
Tensleep shrugged evasively. “You stay away from her, boy. Forget her. That there’s a downright bad woman.”
“What about Van?”
“He’s with her, wherever she is, unless she’s got tired of him and kicked him out—or poisoned him.”
The next morning Val rode out of the mountains. He followed the trail to Hays, and lost it there. Then he rode south into Texas.
The gold in the twin money belts rode heavily on his hips, but he used it sparingly. One night, camped in a sheltered draw near some mesquite, he fed his fire. A feeling of loneliness possessed him. He was missing Will’s companionship, and the talks they’d had about people and books and cards. He was realizing that he wanted to leave all this behind and go somewhere very different…he wanted to go east.
For some time he had been conscious of a growing sound in the distance, and now there was the rattle of trace chains, and the creak of a heavy wagon. A voice called out, “Halloo, the fire!”
Val stepped back into the shadows. “Come in if you’re friendly. If you’re not, just come a-shootin’!”
He heard a chuckle from the darkness. “Now, there’s an invite if ever I heard one! Come on, Betsy, looks like we’re to home!”
CHAPTER 10
THE WAGON ROLLED up to the edge of the firelight and a tall old man got down, peering toward the fire. “It’s all right, stranger,” he said. “We ain’t meanin’ no harm. Seems like Betsy an’ me, we got lost out here.”
He walked into the light, carrying a rifle in his right hand, muzzle down.
Val studied him. He seemed like any drifting land-hunter. Val’s eyes went to the wagon. Whoever Betsy was, she was not in sight. The muzzles of four rifles were.
He was still deep in the shadow and he was sure they could not see him, but he was in no position to fire. If he did shoot, they would sweep his position with rifle fire in the next instant.
“If you’re friendly, why the rifles?” Val kept his tone pleasant. “And don’t count on them being any help. They might get me afterward, but I’d nail your hide before they did.”
“Looks like a Mexican standoff, don’t it, son?”
The old man walked up to the fire. He was shabbily dressed, but he looked as if he made a try at cleanliness, at least. “You all alone, boy?” he said.
“No, I’m not alone. I’ve got a six-shooter and a Winchester,” Val said. “They’re all the company I need.”
The old man chuckled. “See? I tol’ you he was our kind of folks. ’Light an’ set, Betsy.”
The wagon curtains parted and a girl swung down lightly and easily, then she turned and faced the fire. Her hair was black, and her eyes were the same. Her skin was clear and creamy. She was beautiful.
“I am Betsy,” she said simply.
“Why don’t you have the rest of your outfit get down, too?” Val said. “I’d feel a lot easier in my mind if you just gathered around.”
Two young men, not much older than Val himself, got down from the wagon, and Val stepped into the open. He held out his hand. “I am Val Darrant,” he said, “and I am hunting a place to light.”
“Same here.” The taller of the boys said, “I am Tardy Bucklin. This here’s Cody, an’ Pa you’ve met.” Then he turned to the girl. “And this here is Western Bucklin, our sister. We call her Betsy.”
“There’s coffee,” Val said, “but I haven’t enough grub for you all.”
“Never you mind,” Cody said, “I’ll get a bait from the wagon.”
The old man turned toward the wagon and called out, “All right, Dube, you can come out now.”
Another tall boy got down from the wagon and walked toward them, grinning.
Val was annoyed with himself. He had been a fool to gamble, and they had acted wisely, keeping their ace in the hole hidden until sure of him. “Is that all of you?” he asked. “Or do you still have another rifleman somewhere?”
The old man smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Matter of fact, Boston’s out yonder checkin’ your sign to see if more than one of you came in.”
Then Val saw the dog, a big rough-haired one, part airedale and part mastiff, or Great Dane perhaps. He was not unfriendly, but watchful.
Boston walked into the firelight then, and this was another beautiful girl, younger than Betsy.
“You’ll have to watch your step, young feller,” Pa Bucklin said. “These here girls ain’t seen a likely young man since they left home. You’ll be lucky if you get away without them catchin’ onto you.”
“Pa!” Western said indignantly. “What will he think of us?”
“Just a-warnin’ of him, same’s I would if I seen a rattler. An’ he’ll need it, won’t he, boys?”
“Gals do beat all when it comes to takin’ after a man,” Cody said dryly. “Not,” he added, “that they ain’t good gals. I wouldn’t have you get any wrong ideas about ’em.”
One of the boys took his rifle and moved out into the darkness, and the girls began putting on some food. “You set up, son,” Bucklin said. “These girls cook up mighty able vittles, and no matter how much you et, they’ll git you to have more.”
Val did sit up, and the food was all Pa Bucklin had said.
While they ate, the old man explained. “We’re like the rest of ’em, son. We’re huntin’ a fresh start in the western lands. We got nothin’ but a little grub, some good horses, a cow, and a lot of hands used to work, but we aim to make good.”
For the first time in many days, Val relaxed. They were pleasant, easygoing people. They had come from the mountains in Virginia, and they were headed west to try ranching. Pa Bucklin had been a horse trader, and occasionally had driven stock to the eastern cities for sale. Cody and Dube had been west before; they had hunted buffalo, and had taken part in two of the early cattle drives.
“They tell me there’s good land in Colorado,” Pa Bucklin said. “Me and the boys figured to git ourselves some while the gittin’s good.”
“Holding it is harder than getting it,” Val said.
Tardy Bucklin smiled at him. “We get it, we hold it,” he said, “don’t you worry your mind about that. We got to get cattle, too, and horses. We figured to round up some wild horses to start off with. Cody says it can be done.”
“Fact is,” the old man said, “we got ourselves a claim staked out. We got ourselves a place. Cody an’ Dube, they scouted the country when they were buffalo huntin’, and they found us a spring with a good flow of water. We’re a-headin’ for it now.”
“Mind if I ride along?” said Val. “Might lend a hand in case of Indians.”
“Welcome,” Pa Bucklin said, and that began it.
For three slow days they traveled down-country, three wonderful days. The Bucklins were good-humored and hardworking. Val did his part of the work, and tried to do a little more, and in the meanwhile he was thinking.
“This water hole now,” he said. “Is it just sitting there?”
“It’s Coma
nche country,” Dube said, “and not many will hanker for it, but we built ourselves a soddy and Uncle Joe stayed on to sort of see after it.”
They rode up to the springs on the late afternoon of an overcast day. Dust devils were stirring among the short grass, and worrying the trees around the spring—a small but sturdy grove of cottonwoods and willows. Cody and Dube started ahead to scout the layout. Val swung alongside them.
“Uncle Joe, now,” Dube said. “He should be expectin’ of us, I reckon.”
There was no sign of smoke, no sound of axe. They spread out a little and, rifles in hand, rode closer. Then they saw the body, a dark patch on the slope of the hill, away from the trees.
Cody swung wide, circled warily, and approached the body. Then he rode back to them quickly, his face white with anger. “It’s Uncle Joe. He was shot, drug, an’ left to die.”
They closed in swiftly on the soddy. It was a low but solidly built sod house with a pole corral next to it. As they approached the door they could see a sign on the door.
THIS LAND CLAIMED BY DIAMOND BAR
STAY OFF!!
“Well,” Dube spat. “He might have talked us out of it, but he began the shootin’.”
“Maybe your uncle shot first,” Val suggested mildly.
“Uncle Joe? Not him. He was half blind. He couldn’t see well enough to shoot at anything that wasn’t close up to him, and he didn’t hold with shootin’, unless set upon.”
“His rifle is gone,” Cody said.
“We’ll know the rifle,” Dube said. “One time or another we’ll come upon it.”
The sod house was empty, but it had been rifled, the food thrown in the dirt for the wild animals and the ants to eat.
“You tell Pa, Dube. Val an’ me, we’ll sort of set tight.”
When Dube had gone, Cody said, “Pa will be upset. Uncle Joe was the only kin of my mother, an’ Pa and him thought a lot of one another. I reckon we’ll have some huntin’ to do.”
“You may be outnumbered.”
Cody turned cold eyes on Val. “No Bucklin is ever outnumbered, young feller.”
The wagon rolled in, and the girls began to make the little house comfortable. They slept in the soddy, the men slept outside.
The next day they began work on enlarging the house. They also dug rifle pits on the hills close around, and a man stayed on watch all the time. At night there was another on watch—the dog, a powerful beast, friendly as a puppy among the family, but deep-voiced and ready to be fierce to anyone who approached from the outside.
“We got to round us up some horses,” Bucklin said the first day, “and hunt us some meat.”
“You ought to run cattle,” Val suggested. “You can’t sell many horses, except to the Army, and the Indians will steal them.”
“A body does what he can,” Bucklin said grimly. “We got nothing but our milk cow.”
Val threw his saddle into place, cinched up, and stood staring at the rolling hills. These were good people, poor but solid, and they were workers. Maybe he was a fool, but Will had always taught him that character was the most important element in judging horses, dogs, or men. And women, too, he supposed.
“Mr. Bucklin,” he said, “I am of a mind to talk business.”
Pa looked at him, surprised at the sudden change of tone. Cody looked at him, too.
“Are the boys all here?” Val said. “Let’s sit down together.”
They came in, those tall, quiet young men, Dube, Cody, and Tardy, and the two girls.
“You don’t know me any better than I know you,” Val said, “but I like the way you work together and the way you handle yourselves. I can feel you’re honest people, and I think you’re going to make a success of ranching.” He hesitated, then took the plunge. “I want to buy in. I want a partnership. I won’t be here much of the time—I’ve got to go east, and I’ve got some looking around to do. In fact, I’ve got to find a couple of men…three, in fact. That’s why I can’t work with you much of the time.”
“What you figurin’ on?”
“You need cattle. I will put up the money for six hundred head if you can get them for ten dollars a head.”
“We can buy cows for four to five dollars in Texas,” Cody said. “You got that kind of money?”
“Yes,” Val said. “I inherited it from my uncle, and I can get more.”
They looked at one another, and Val could see they were doubtful. He opened his shirt and took out one of the money belts. Opening the pockets he took out two thousand dollars in gold and greenbacks. “There you are. When you’re ready, we can ride south and east and buy cattle.”
Cody heaved a great sigh. “Well, Pa, there she is. More’n we ever hoped for. I say we go partners with him.”
Bucklin rubbed his jaw. “You want half?”
“One-third…you do the work, I put up the money for the cattle. You take that, buy what you can. I’ll come in with more later.”
“Don’t see’s we could do better, nohow,” Bucklin said. “We’re with you, son.”
After that several days passed, during which they scouted the range in every direction, riding in pairs for self-protection, with always one man on watch at home. The grass was good, and despite the claims of the Diamond Bar, they saw no cattle wearing any brand at all.
They did see a small herd of buffalo, numbering not over sixty head. One, grazing off to one side, they shot for meat. There were numerous antelope, and once, far off, they glimpsed a wolf.
Water holes were scarce. The one by which they had settled had a strong flow, but it was the only water hole in several miles. Its value was immediately apparent. Whoever controlled that water would control about forty square miles of range. A longhorn steer would walk three days to get to water, though cattle weren’t going to fatten up much unless water was easier of access.
About a hundred yards from the soddy, they dug out a low place, shaping the sides and lining three sides with stones, to form a crude tank. Into this they directed the runoff from the spring.
“Pa,” Cody said, “I don’t like it much, about Uncle Joe. He was a kindly man.”
“Maybe we ought to fetch it to them,” Dube suggested.
“No,” Pa Bucklin said, “we’ll wait. We settled in this country of our ownselves. We aim to stay here, so we ain’t goin’ to push no fight. They started it, an’ they’ll come a-huntin’ us soon or late. Meanwhile, we got to think about cattle, mostly about breedin’ stock.”
He glanced at Val. “You know anything about beef cattle, boy?”
“A little. I’ve worked on the range a mite, and I’ve sat and listened to the cattle buyers talk deals by the hour. I’ve waited a lot in hotel lobbies and I’d hear them talking the fine points. When Will and I punched cows a little, we worked with a very canny cattleman who used to tell us what was wrong with this one or that one. Yes, I know a little.”
“None of us knows too much, when it comes to that. No more than a sight of others who are choosing land in this western country. Son, you, Cody, and me, we’ll ride up to town.”
“How about us?” Boston asked. “Western and me, we’d like to see the lights.”
“Ain’t many lights where we’re a-goin’,” Cody said. “You all saw that town. It’s a one-street town of weather-beaten shacks, mostly saloons.”
“You stay,” Pa said. “There might be trouble. There might also be trouble here too, but you two can handle rifles good as any man.”
Before the light came the next morning they were riding the short-grass plains toward town, startling the rabbits, which ran off a ways and then sat up, ears pricked. They rode with their Winchesters in the saddle boots, and spurs jingling.
They came into Cross-Timbers, and the first thing they saw was a Diamond Bar wagon and two Diamond Bar ponies standing three-legged at the hitch
rail in front of the Cap-Rock Saloon.
The street was lined with eight buildings and a corral—there were four saloons, two general stores, a blacksmith shop, and an eating place.
They tied their horses and went into the saloon, letting the batwing doors swing behind them. Pa and Cody, they walked up to the bar, but Val did what Will Reilly had always done, and stayed inside the door, looking into the darkest corner to get his eyes accustomed after the glare. He did not drink, anyway, so he sat down at an empty table near the door.
There were four cowhands and a teamster in the saloon, as well as a couple of men in broadcloth suits at the bar. With them was a man who looked as if he might be the blacksmith.
Pa ordered a drink and then looked over at these men. “Beggin’ your pardon, gents,” he said, “but I am in the market to buy cattle.”
For a long moment no one spoke, although all turned to look at him. Then one of the cowhands at the table spoke up. “You picked the wrong country, friend. There’s no range around here, not for miles. This here is Diamond Bar country.”
“Seems a mighty spread-out place for one outfit.” Pa spoke mildly. “Anyway, we’ve settled in on a nice water hole over west of here. We like it there.”
“That water hole was posted by the Diamond Bar.”
“I noticed that,” Cody said quietly, “and they murdered an almost blind old man to mark their sign.”
For a moment there was dead silence, and then the cowhand said, “That old man was armed.”
“That old man was not armed,” Cody said flatly. “He was my ma’s oldest brother, and he couldn’t see across this here saloon.”
The cowhand’s face tightened. “You callin’ me a liar?”
“If you were there, and shot that man, I am callin’ you a liar and a murderer,” Cody said coolly. “If you just heard the story told, I am tellin’ you whoever told you that story was a liar and a murderer.”
One of the others spoke up. “You’d better say that easy, cowboy. The man who told us that was Chip Hardesty.”
Reilly's Luck (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 10